The Pack Survives
by Beeezie
Summary: Cut scene from Jon and Sansa's reunion in S6, E4.
It took a long time for them to release each other, despite the biting cold. They were Starks, raised in the North; a little snow and cold were nothing.

Eddard Stark's execution had heralded an avalanche of pain, trauma, and loss, and it was an avalanche that they'd each gotten through alone - somewhat the worse for wear. But here, for a stolen few moments amidst the insanity, they were no longer alone.

When they finally broke apart, she had tears streaming down her face. He didn't, but she could see the sentiment reflected in his expression.

"What are you doing here?" he managed to croak out.

Sansa cast a quick look around the yard. Brienne was standing just off to the side, hand on her sword, watching the men milling around the yard casting curious glances their way warily. She appreciated Brienne's caution, and in any other situation, Sansa's instincts would have mirrored hers. It had been five years since she'd been in the company of anyone in whom she had total and complete trust.

But she was with her brother now, and her brother was the Lord Commander, and she knew that he would never let anyone hurt her. Jon was one of the few people she still trusted beyond any shadow of a doubt.

Jon followed her gaze and sighed. "Inside, then." A man with long hair and a large forehead was watching them from the bottom of the stairs; as they passed him, Brienne and Poderick trailing just two steps behind them, Jon said curtly, "My sister." He paused in front of the door he'd come out of. "Would your friends like to warm up? You've come a long way."

Brienne's gaze flicked over to Sansa. "We'll wait." Her hand still hadn't left the hilt of her sword.

"No - it's fine," Sansa said. "Go and get warm."

"I swore an oath to protect you."

"No one is going to hurt me in the Lord Commander's room." Jon seemed to twitch a little, though when Sansa looked at him, his face was calm.

Brienne would not be dissuaded from maintaining a post by the door, though she did step aside to allow Sansa to enter the room without her and did not protest when Jon closed the door.

It was a spartan room, but then, it was the wall. It was a hard life. Their uncle Benjen had always said so. Jon had been living it since they'd last seen each other. When they'd parted ways, she'd pitied him. Now, she wished she'd had the same path.

"How are you here?" he asked.

She knew that if she wanted to tell him the bare minimum, she could. She suspected he would accept two sentences vaguely alluding to Ramsay's character and saying that she'd run away from it. Now that she was here, though, she found herself wanting to let the courtesies and ladylike hints fall by the wayside.

She took a deep breath. "Don't interrupt me," she warned him. "I only want to say it all once, and I - well, I probably could finish it if I was interrupted, but I'd really rather not."

He nodded once and gestured toward the bench. "I'm sorry. It's not very comfortable."

Sansa settled onto the bench. "It's fine. Believe me." He sat down next to her, and after a deep breath, she told him it. All of it, from the beginning.

Lady. Their father's death. Joffrey Baratheon. (Or had it been Lannister after all?) Meryn Trant. The riot. Lysa Arryn. Ramsay Bolton. Myranda. The dogs.

To his credit, Jon was a good listener. He didn't interrupt her, though by the end, his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white, and his jaw was set in a grimace. Before he could speak, there was a scratch at the door. Sansa jumped. "It's just Ghost," he said, rising to his feet and stalking over to the door. "He must know you're here."

Sansa's breath caught in her throat as the enormous white wolf trotted into the room.

She hadn't seen a direwolf since Lady had died. She wished she'd had Lady with her; no one would have dared to hurt her with a wolf this big at her side.

She felt the tears start to slide down her cheeks at last, and she held a hand out. One of the many knots in her eased when she touched his head, and she suddenly remembered Robb saying that it had been Jon's idea to keep the wolves, and that he'd convinced their father.

"Are they dead?" Jon asked from the door. Ghost had progressed to butting his head against her shoulder.

"Some of them are." She kept her gaze fixed on Ghost. Missing Lady was an old hurt, and she'd had the most practice dealing with it. Seeing Lady's brother made the hurt a little more raw again, but there was also something comforting about seeing one of their wolves wonderfully alive - not lying dead on the floor, not beheaded and sewn onto Robb's body. She was glad she'd only heard about the latter. "You've gotten so much bigger since last time I saw you," she whispered.

Jon rejoined her on the bench. His jaw was still tight, but his fists loosened when Ghost transferred his attention to him. "I know," he said, running a hand over the direwolf's neck. Sansa knew he wasn't talking to her. "It's been a long week." He looked back at her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry all of that happened to you. I wish I'd been there." His face took on the familiar brooding expression that she remembered so well from their childhood. Then, she'd found it annoying. Now, it was comforting. "I wish I'd been there for all of you. I wish I'd never taken my vows."

"But you're the Lord Commander."

A shadow of a smile flicked across his lips. "I was." He pulled his hand away from Ghost, and the big direwolf settled down onto the floor. "I'm not anymore. I'm leaving."

A fresh gust of wind howled against the door. Sansa ignored it. "But the vows are for life."

"I gave my life. I'm done."

She stared at him. She could faintly hear the men in the courtyard, but the silence in the room was stifling. "That's not funny," she said finally.

"It wasn't meant to be." He let his head drop to his hands. "They killed me. My own brothers. Not - the brothers of the Night's Watch, I mean. I was gone for a day and a night before the red priestess brought me back."

"Gone?" She tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice, but didn't quite manage it.

"They put a knife in my heart. The wounds are still there, still fresh, but they don't bleed. You'll have to trust me - I'm not going to get undressed. But we know what's dead and what isn't up here."

"Are they dead?"

His head jerked up, and it took him a moment to speak. "I hung them."

"Oh."

"If I hadn't, were you planning to take them on?"

"I'd have liked to try."

She hoped he wouldn't make a joke about Arya.

He didn't. Instead, he smiled faintly. "If that's your plan, I should be teaching you to use a sword." She wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, but she was saved from doing so when he said, "Do you want to wash up? I won't disappear on you, I promise."

"I - yes."

He put an arm around her shoulders to hug her closer. "I wish we'd had happier stories to tell, but I'm glad you're here."

"So am I." She lifted her hand to meet his, and he gripped it. His hands were rough and calloused; she wondered if they'd always been that way, or if the wall had made him harder.

Or both.

Something their father had said once, a lifetime ago, sprang to her mind. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." She could almost hear his voice in her head.

She was glad that she'd found part of her pack.


End file.
